L'ardeur
by Ms. AtomicBomb
Summary: Gawain falls in love. Jeanne has greatness ahead of her. The fire in her heart burns for heaven. His sinking heart yearns for her. But, she's so deathly young.


Author's Note

Happy Saint Valentine's Day! And Happy Ash Wednesday! I was supposed to update this on Wednesday... but my comp crashed and it decided to update for like ever and then it just screwed me over because the document didn't fully save so I had to rewrite the ending...

Well! This is gonna be an angsty fic. It was gonna be happy but like, a sad song came on and here we are haha. I hope you enjoy. I went with a new pairing this time around... I am not certain why. It was going to be Jealainn but... I thought of Gawain and here we are again. I hope you enjoy. I was very happy with this fic. Can't wait to hear from you!

Sincerely,

 _Ms. AtomicBomb_

* * *

 _ **"She'll break her own heart**_  
 _ **And you know**_  
 _ **That she'll break your heart too**_  
 _ **So darling, let go of her hand..."**_

 _ **-Regina Spektor**_

* * *

Jeanne closed her eyes, her fingers slid over the rocky hand rail that lined the castle's balcony. The surface calmed her nerves. The battle had gone horribly wrong the previous day and she felt displeased with her attitude. She knew she had to have faith but she found it challenging when the generals thought her incompetent while they were the ones making irrational and ill-advised decisions.

The early morning breeze kissed her face as the sun returned from hiding behind the rolling hills. She blinked, gazing over the few miles of fields before her, a few farms scattering the land every now and again. There was not much to see, but she loved it; nature was serene.

A couple birds chirp and her lips exploded into a smile. They never failed to make her happy; no matter what troubled her.

Her head whipped at the sound of someone clearing their throat.

"Hello," she breathed, her hands tightening on the railing.

"How are you fairing?" The man stepped into the light from the darkness of the castle, sunlight engulfing his body.

She shrugged, "I could be better."

The man nodded, "I would imagine."

"And you, sir Gawain? How are you fairing?"

He took his place next to her, blonde hair lighting gold underneath the power of the light. "I am not sure… I…" he sighed, "I am _very_ tired."

Jeanne continued to look up at him as he let his gaze fall onto the rolling hills. "I saw what you did back there, for one of the soldiers. It was very self-less of you."

His lips stretched and he fixed his posture, puffing his chest like a proud eagle. "Just doing what I can," he winked at her.

"I feel like going for a drink." She looked out on the land.

" _What_?" He coughed, "Did I hear you correctly, Jeanne?"

She nodded.

" _You_ want to _drink_?"

"It is not as if I have _never_ drunk before."

He sounded scandalized, "Yes, but it's only six in the morning. Are…are you certain that you're alright?"

She stared at him, lifting an eyebrow. "I went to mass, had breakfast… I think one drink is alright."

"I never pinned you for a drunkard, with all the holy talk and whatnot…"

"It is not forbidden to drink, Gawain. I simply want a glass or two of wine; nothing excessive."

Gawain ran a hand through his hair. "I might have a bottle of white, is that alright with you?"

"Can we go out for a walk? The castle is stuffy." Her eyes fell beyond the boy as if she reminisced about something. She seemed distant that the poor man felt under appreciated. He knew better, albeit, she never meant something like that.

He reached for her cheek, running his thumb over her black eye. She flinched. "I am at your service, as always, milady."

Her lavender eyes blinked and she placed her hand on his, slowly retracting it. He could have sworn he saw a frown on her lips. "Thank you." She turned towards the door. "Have you heard any news from the Irish?"

"He… He's married, Jeanne."

Her head turned back toward the Englishman, she smiled, "I'm glad."

Gawain watched her leave, the slow careful steps she took were calculated, as if she were still in battle. She was deathly young, she did not deserve this cold world. She deserved moments like the rising sun, warmth on her skin, the birds chirping, a billion of kisses planted on her face with gentleness and fragility. She deserved _happiness_. War was no place for an eighteen-year-old girl.

They met at the doors of the castle. He held a basket in his hands.

Jeanne smiled at him, giving him a kiss on each cheek. It was custom of her to greet anyone like this. He saw she was looking more herself; the soft smile on her lips, her eyes bright.

"This is truly what I need right now," she spoke as the horses galloped underneath them.

"I brought food along."

She laughed, "I can always count on you."

They were a few ways away from the castle amidst a clearing in the small forest near the many hills. The trees loomed over them, creating only a little bit of shade and letting the sun mostly filter through the leaves.

He set down a blanket and she laid upon it; her eyes fixed on the clouds overhead. He sat next to her in silence, nature filling the space between them.

"I brought _two_ bottles, one for you, one for me."

She glanced at him, "You are perfect." She sat up, giggling.

His heart grew in his chest and he swallowed, he always cursed himself for feeling _anything_ for someone younger than him. He poured a glass for her and one for him, a little shakily. Passing her a goblet, he raised his own in a toast.

"For our well being." She smiled.

"For our well being," he repeated and watched as she brought the silver goblet to her lips. He too took a sip.

"Wow!" She grinned, "This is one of the best wines I have ever tasted."

"Well," Gawain shrugged, "only the best for such a talented and kind general."

Giggling in response, Jeanne waved him off, "You flatter me."

"But you _are_ such an amazing leader, there is no lie."

She laughed again, falling back on the blanket; hair fanning around her like a halo. She was always so heavenly; his heart would skip a few beats.

"Do you dance?" He asked.

A scoff came from her part, "I did once, it was utter failure."

"I can teach you…" He murmured under his breath after taking another sip of the sweet wine.

Jeanne closed her eyes. She took a deep breath.

He almost regretted his decision, " _If_ you would like, that is."

"I would love to," She mumbled, "but let me soak in the sun. I've needed it for a while now."

He watched as her breathing evened, she relaxed and the sun kissed her face with such a beautiful glow. Her cheeks were dusted pink and her lips were swollen and chapped (probably from the draining battel they had participated in the day prior).

Jeanne had fallen asleep, he deemed.

"I think…" he whispered, "I think I might have… fallen in love with you."

He laid down on the blanket as well, staring up at the clouds, watching them change shape and get on with their merry day. He recalled the time they first met, her hair was loose, her eyes were so alive; she was only fifteen. There was a fire in her heart that he could never understand, a fire that burned so bright and strong, one that towered above anything he had ever seen before. She was set ablaze with such a warm, loving fire.

Her heart so pure, her mind so perfect… her lips so…

He thought of the first time she had been in battle. At the age of sixteen the fire was still aflame. Her courage, fortitude, leadership… it was all there. She was but a child but she was mighty. Mightier than anyone he had known before.

At nearly the age of seventeen, she fell in love. She was so young… so very _young_. Something held her back—the fire. The endless fire in her soul burned strong but there was no space for earthly love. Her eyes were up to heaven, but her heart still ached for a fellow soldier. She had to push him away… Gawain just never knew why she did not leave the army to marry Cu.

At seventeen she was injured. The fire calmed for a while, she was in despair and depression for what felt like years, however, it was but a few months. Her brightness had dimmed, the people got over her, the generals excluded her from their meetings. Jeanne filled herself with rage and anger, she drowned herself in despair.

At eighteen…her fire returned with much more fervour. She grew stronger, kinder, patient. She soared above all. Even Gawain himself. He was nothing compared to her.

 _She was Heaven sent._

Her eyelids fluttered open lazily, the way a scared bird would flap its wings. Her eyes shun like amethysts in the afternoon sun. Her bruised eyes was much more squinted than the other, you could see her flinching in pain.

"Good morning." Gawain watched as she yawned, stretching slowly.

She groaned.

"Or should I say afternoon."

The realization of the time did not make her hurry as she sat up and yawned once more. "How long was I sleeping?"

He sighed, "About two hours … I think?"

The look on her face was something he truly valued. He would never forget how beautiful she looked; rested, cheeks pink and her lips…oh, her lips…

She blinked, "Did I drool, perchance?"

He snapped out of it, finally looking back up at her eyes, "Hn?"

"You keep looking at my mouth. Is there something in my teeth?"

He shook his head, a blush creeping onto his cheeks, flooding them red. He always cursed the fact that he blushed much too easily and very vibrantly. "No, _no_. I just—I was thinking about…My mind was elsewhere, forgive me."

She tittered, almost like a songbird. His heart swelled again. "You do that much too often, sir Gawain."

"I know," he lowered his gaze, guilt filling his very frame.

Jeanne's hand stretched out towards him. "Teach me."

He looked up again, her smile was the first thing he saw. "What?"

"To dance, you offered, _silly_."

Gawain stared at her before taking her hand. It was soft and warm to the touch. His eyes were lost in hers, he felt the pain, felt it in his heart, in the deepest depths of his soul. _He ached_.

"Are you troubled?" She tilted her head.

Shaking his head, he stood, helping her to her feet, "What type of dance would you like to learn?"

She shrugged, her lips pursing into a straight line. "I have no idea. Whatever you would suggest."

He opted for a slow dance, maybe having her close would do him some good; give him some sanity. "Would you be alright with something slow?"

"Do you have a tune?" She asked.

His humming began. She closed her eyes, listening while he wrapped a hand around her waist and held her hand with his own. He was gentle with her; like she deserved.

She hummed along, the space between them closing a bit as she leaned her head on his chest and he guided her at a leisurely pace. It was smooth at first, she learned quickly, until he felt his heart racing and he took a step back, making her loose her footing slightly.

Jeanne gave him a questioning look.

"Forgive me, I was afraid to step on your feet." He found an easy excuse.

She laughed, "I should be the one to say that."

Their dancing began again once she started to hum. This time, however, she did not lean her head on his chest. She watched her footing closely and he took over the humming, commenting on what steps she should take every now and again.

She seemed to be enjoying herself, singing along to the lyrics of the tune so sweetly. They stopped for a few goblets of wine and continued the dancing.

"You see," Gawain hummed, "you are not bad at dancing."

"You say after I have stepped a dozen times on your feet." Jeanne furrowed her brows.

He rolled his eyes. "You are doing great, do _not_ speak ill of yourself."

"Thank you," she sung.

Their gazes locked. She took a small breath and his temptation took the best of him when he saw her lick her chapped lips. They were so tempting… so _sweet_.

A great force drew him in and he leaned towards her, his eyes fluttering closed. His heart exploded in his chest when he felt her damp, warm lips on his. He brought her closer before he squeezed her hand and let it go, only to take her face in his hand. He angled her head slightly and she hesitantly kissed him back.

He melted in her arms as they slowly snaked around his neck.

They pulled apart and the lingering taste of wine stung his lips.

They panted, foreheads resting upon each other.

"I…" Jeanne breathed.

Gawain pulled her in again as she gasped. He moved his lips against hers, his heart thumping in his chest like a war drum. She sank into his grasp, kissing him back again. His fingers grazed her neck, the other hand tightening around her waist while he continued to kiss her.

Her soft hands tangled themselves in his hair and he almost—nearly—moaned.

She pulled away harshly. Filling him with the cool spring air.

"This…" she gasped, "This is wrong."

"B-but, Jeanne. I… I think I've fallen in love you."

She shook her head, pulling away from his arms. "This was _not_ supposed to happen. We… I…"

Gawain furrowed his brows, "I don't understand. We… we have something."

"I have a vocation, Gawain… I cannot do this."

He reached for her, "We can—"

"No," she continued to shake her head, taking a step farther from him, "we cannot. _I_ … I cannot put you through this."

"Through love?"

"Through pain. I," she stepped towards him, landing a hand on his cheek, "I won't live past nineteen."

" _What_?"

"My visions fail me not. I cannot let you go through this." She stood on her tip-toes, kissing his cheek lovingly but with great sadness. "You are such a kind and great man…but my future lies with God. I cannot take you with me."

He took a hold on her hand a placed a gentle kiss on it. "Are you happy?"

"I will be."

His hand slipped away from her and he took in her words.

Eighteen…she broke his heart when she was eighteen. She had so much ahead of herself, so much she had to endure by herself but she knew she wasn't alone. Her heart might have wavered but her eyes were always fixed past the clouds, to something greater. The flame in her heart was not for marriage, it was for greatness. A boy would only distract her from sainthood. A boy would hold her back from martyrdom…

Eighteen… the age he had fallen in love with her. He was only eighteen when he fell truly in love. And at twenty-two, he watched her fall off her horse at the edge of a couple of swords. At twenty-three, he watched as his first love was consumed by flames.

She was only nineteen.

 _So deathly young._


End file.
